Lensherr's Eleven
by Lear's Daughter
Summary: Erik Lensherr has just been released from prison. His next step: put together a team and go after Sebastian Shaw, level five mutant, casino owner, and Charles Xavier's fiancé. Charles/Erik, Ocean's 11 fusion.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own _X-Men_ or _Ocean's 11_.

Warning: Spoilers for all X-Men movies, including First Class.

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><p><em>1<em>

Freedom was not the sun on his face. It was not the first breath of fresh air he'd had in three years, nor was it the feel of his own clothes gracing his skin, the comfort of his own possessions bundled under his arm.

No, freedom came a good ten minutes before any of that, in the form of a metal lighter one of the guards had brought to work that day, breaking regulations for the first time in three years because as of that day they were no longer necessary.

As of that day, Erik Lensherr was a free man.

_2_

He found Pyro in one of the seedier casinos on the Las Vegas strip. The younger man, his hair slicked back under a lime green hat more suited to a used car dealer, juggled flames for tips in between dealing hands of blackjack. He didn't bat an eye when Erik sat at his table, just wove a flame between his fingers, earning an _ooh_ from the tourist crowd, and grinned a broad showman's grin.

He was calling himself the Amazing Flamamatic these days. It suited him.

Later, much later, when the crowds had dispersed and they were finally left alone, Pyro leaned across the table and said, "Damn, it's good to see you, boss. I didn't think they'd actually let you out."

Erik sipped his gin and tonic. Privately, he'd worried the same thing, though he'd never admit it to Pyro. "I served my sentence," he said. "They convicted me for tax evasion, not murder. They had to release me."

"So what's the plan?" Pyro said. "Three years in the can, you must have figured out your next move."

"My dear Pyro—excuse me, _Flamamatic_," Erik said, raising an eyebrow, "I've barely been out of prison for twenty four hours. Any rational man in my position would toe the line for at least a few days, don't you think?"

Pyro snorted. "If you were gonna walk the straight and narrow, Magneto, you wouldn't have come to me."

Clever John, all grown up and making it on his own. It pleased Erik to know that his confidence in the young mutant had not been misplaced.

"Where is she?" he asked, knowing that that would be all the confirmation Pyro needed.

Pyro smirked. "Where else? Capitol Hill."

_3_

It was fortunate that he knew Raven as well as he did, since otherwise picking her out of the crowd of people working on Capitol Hill would have been impossible. He'd been following the news as best he could in his plastic prison, however, and he knew precisely who her target would be.

In an era where mutants had been widely accepted by society, politicians willing to spout anti-mutant rhetoric were few and far between. Oh, they had their supporters, of course—there were still states in the South that fought for segregation of mutant and human schooling and transportation—but for the most part their opinions were wildly unpopular.

The loudest anti-mutant voice in the Senate was Edward Kelly, junior senator from Texas, who had won his seat by proclaiming that he would fight for the Mutant Registration Act—which had been proposed and shot down nearly a decade earlier—to his dying breath. If Erik knew Raven—and he did—he was certain he would find her among Senator Kelly's staff, no doubt doing her best to make his life a living hell.

He couldn't risk entering the Capitol Building itself—the magnetic field his body automatically generated played merry havoc with metal detectors—but it was a simple matter to put in a call to the senator's office and, with some charm and a few carefully worded questions, ascertain where the senator and his people were having lunch.

He arrived at the restaurant a good hour before the senator was due, claiming a corner booth and ordering a cup of tea and sandwich. The senator arrived precisely at noon, three of his toadies in tow. One was a woman, young, attractive, her skirt revealing quite a lot of thigh. The other two were men, one heavyset and balding, the other about Erik's age with thick glasses.

Raven, of course, was the one with no metal on her body.

He waved his waitress over and politely asked if he could switch tables, passing her a twenty in the process. She graciously agreed to let him sit wherever he'd like. He chose a table along the wall, well within Raven's line of sight. She was intent enough on the senator that she didn't notice him for another five minutes or so. Finally, though, she looked up, saw him, and went very still.

He winked.

Her lips twitched. She leaned over and said something to the senator, then pushed back her chair, heading for the restroom. Erik waited a discreet moment before following. When he entered the men's room she was standing at the sink, washing her hands. A quick sweep of the room with his power identified no metal other than what one would expect in an empty bathroom, so he used his ability to hold the door shut, then leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, and said, "Hello, Raven."

"Hello, Erik," she said. She reached for a paper towel to dry her hands. She tossed the damp towel in the trash and shifted, shedding about eighty pounds and her cheap suit until she stood before him in her true form, blue, lithe, and beautiful. She smiled, her teeth shining white against her skin. "I heard you were out."

He sighed. "Pyro," he said fondly.

"Don't blame the boy. He was excited to see you."

"And you?" he said. "Are you excited to see me?"

She sauntered across the room, her every movement predatory, sensual. He had not thought she could have become more dangerous since he'd last seen her.

"Ecstatic," she said, reaching out to straighten the collar of his shirt. "You look terrible."

"Prison will do that to you," he said. "You, on the other hand, are lovelier than ever."

She rolled her eyes and stepped back. "So what's the plan?"

He appreciated her forthrightness. He told her.

She was silent for a long time once he'd finished speaking, her head tilted to one side as she turned the problem over in her mind.

"It's risky," she said at last.

"I know."

"If things go badly, we'll be sharing a cell—or worse."

"I know. But if things go right—"

"—If things go right, this could be everything we ever wanted."

She fell silent again, but now there was an excited gleam in her eye. "We'll need a large crew for this. A good mix of abilities."

"Of course," he said. He had some people in mind but all of his contacts were three years out of date. Raven's information was more reliable.

"Specifically—and this is non-negotiable—we need a class five mutant."

He'd thought she might say that. "Don't you think we can do without—"

She interrupted him, her voice fierce. "We can't cut corners on this one, Erik, or he'll rip us apart. We need her."

He sighed. "She won't be happy to see either of us."

"No," Raven agreed. "You might have to grovel."

"And Senator Kelly?" Erik said. He knew Raven would never leave loose ends behind her, but he wanted to hear her say it.

She waved a hand. "I was tired of putting laxatives in his coffee anyway. I'll take care of things. We can fly out tomorrow."

Senator Kelly was determined to promote the MRA until his dying breath? Erik had a feeling the senator's dying breath would come much earlier than the man expected.

_4_

Jean Grey had moved up in the world. That was Erik's first thought upon seeing her. His second thought was that he'd been right all along about her potential.

She lay on a lounge chair in a bikini, a large pair of stylish sunglasses covering almost half of her face, her hair burnished red by the sun.

A young man whose sole purpose seemed to be making blended drinks hovered nearby, sweating under the hot Nevada sun. Erik and Raven perched on the edge of their chairs, Raven sipping a pina colada through a straw while Erik shifted his margarita from hand to hand without tasting it, enjoying the feel of the cool condensation against his skin.

"You have a lot of nerve coming to me like this," Jean said. She spoke softly, but her voice resonated eerily, as if her physical form alone was no longer capable of containing her power.

"I need your help," he said.

She laughed. He could feel her laughter inside his head, all sharp edges and ice. "You need my help?" she echoed. "You, the great Magneto, who's never needed anyone or anything in his life? You need my help?"

He rubbed his forehead. Suddenly he had a headache. "Jean—"

"No," she interrupted, doing something with her telepathy so that he could not have continued speaking if he'd tried. "No, Erik, you don't get to ask me for help. You walked out on us five years ago. I don't owe you a _thing_."

Raven finished her drink and stood. "Come on, Erik," she said, "we don't need her."

_Yes,_ Erik thought, standing as well. _Jean is probably too afraid to test her powers against Shaw's anyway._

"_Shaw_?" Jean said, snatching off her sunglasses and sitting up. "Your target is Sebastian Shaw?"

She made no gesture, but suddenly Erik found himself able to speak again. "Of course it would make our lives much easier if we had a class five mutant on our side to shield us during our preparations, but I'm sure we can manage on our own," he said smoothly, as if he'd never been cut off.

"You're going after Shaw?" Jean repeated. "And your plan is to—yes, yes, that could work, although—oh, I see, that's why you need—but have you considered—of course, Mystique has." She threw back her head and laughed, and this laugh rang in his head like a gong.

He hadn't felt her rifling through his thoughts. The speed and ease with which she'd done it spoke of a control he wouldn't have expected her to develop for many more years. It almost made him uneasy, made him think back to when he'd first met her, when she was a frightened teenager, and he had sensed that there was much more to her abilities than mere telepathy or telekinesis.

"All right, Erik," she said. "I'll help. And then you'll owe me one."

_5 and 6_

Even nine miles away, Erik could sense adamantium, a familiar calling card. He glanced at Raven, who sat in the passenger seat in her natural form, one hand hanging out over the convertible's door.

"I wouldn't have thought we'd find these two together," Erik said, reclining in his seat and using his power to steer. It was foolish for him to speed—he was already in violation of his parole, though his parole officer, a pleasant mutant with the ability to grow his hair at will, was so far unaware of that fact—but they were in the middle of nowhere Montana and hadn't seen another car in over an hour. The open road called to him.

He changed gears and pressed the pedal harder, pushing one hundred miles per hour.

Raven tilted her head back, letting the breeze slide across her face. "After the Statue of Liberty incident they must have decided they had something in common—or maybe they realized they complemented each other nicely—because they've been inseparable ever since. Rumor has it they still bicker like children, though."

The adamantium was near, now, very near, coming toward them and moving fast. Faster than Erik was driving.

"Here they come," he said, releasing the pressure on the gas and pulling his Ferrari onto the side of the road. He climbed out and leaned back against the door, Raven coming around the car to stand beside him.

Two figures appeared on the horizon, too small to be cars. They grew in his vision rapidly, taking the form of two men crouched low on streamlined motorcycles. Erik let his senses play along the metal in the bikes. When they came a bit closer he lifted them above the road, their tires spinning less than an inch above the pavement—so close they wouldn't even realize they were hovering—and slowed them gradually so the bikers wouldn't go flying over the handlebars.

"What the hell did you do to my bike, Logan?" one of the riders shouted.

"Me?" the other snarled back. "I'm losing speed! You sabotage my engine again, bub?"

Erik brought both motorcycles to a complete halt beside his car. The two men were too busy bickering to have noticed him. He cleared his throat. "Your motorcycles are fine."

They whirled as one, Wolverine's claws sliding out of his fists, Cyclops' hand rising to a button set into the visor of his helmet. They tensed further when they caught sight of Erik standing there casually, wearing a tailored black suit and fedora.

"Magneto," Wolverine growled.

Erik smiled. "Hello, boys," he said, just to irritate them. "I have a job for you."

"You must be joking," Cyclops said. "We should call the cops and have them haul you back to prison."

"Such hostility, Scott," Erik said, tsking. "I can offer you quite a lot of money."

"Don't need money," Wolverine grunted.

"Of course you don't. What you _do_ need is excitement. A chance to use your gifts for something other than pointless drag racing."

"Look, Magneto," Cyclops said impatiently, "what we need or don't need has nothing to do with you. We're not interested. Get out of here."

Raven pushed herself off of the car. "You're not interested?" she said, her voice silky. "That's a real pity. I know that Jean—" she shifted into the other woman's form, wearing the same bikini they'd seen her wear, leaving little to the imagination "—was looking forward to seeing you both."

As always, she did her work almost too well. The two men gaped at her with naked longing painted on their faces, as if Jean's face was a sight neither had expected to see ever again. It was a moment before either of them found their tongue.

"The Phoenix is helping you? Why?" Cyclops demanded.

He called her Phoenix, Erik knew, because he could not bear to call her Jean—could not think of the cold woman who lived in a mansion, used people as puppets, and leaked power from her pores as the same girl he'd known since childhood.

"We share a common enemy," Erik said.

They still could not look away from Raven-as-Jean. He knew they were hooked.

"Who?" Wolverine snarled.

He told them.

_7_

Recruiting Beast necessitated a return to Washington, D.C. The mutant scientist/philosopher/genius was frequently summoned to speak to Congress on matters of mutant affairs, though he held no official position in the government. Raven had seen him around during her own stay on Capitol Hill, she told Erik, but since Senator Kelly loathed Beast and all he stood for their interactions were thankfully kept to a bare minimum. She'd worried that if anyone was going to expose her it would be him.

Erik used his power to let Raven and himself into Beast's apartment. They barely had time to make themselves comfortable before there was a crashing sound as the door was kicked in from the outside. They sprang to their feet as Beast bounded in, snarling, immense nostrils flaring, clearly expecting an attack. He came to a halt when he saw them, blinking rapidly.

"You two," he said, the anger in his voice tempered by surprise. "I knew someone had broken in, but I didn't think it would be you. What are you doing here?"

Erik let Raven take the lead on this one. There was history between Raven and Beast, though the two had not been on friendly terms for a long, long time.

"How would you like the chance to work with the old team again?" she said.

Beast crossed his arms over his chest. "That depends. What happened to Senator Kelly?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "How did you know that was me?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Your appearance changes. Your scent doesn't. I'd know you anywhere, Raven. I want to know why you killed him."

"If Senator Kelly had had his way, we would all be shipped off to camps or killed," Raven said sharply, irritated as always by his self-righteous attitude. "I did what was necessary."

Beast's lips tightened. "Still the same Mystique."

She made a cutting gesture with her hand. "I won't apologize for who I am. What I want to know is whether you're the same Hank McCoy I remember. The old Hank cared about justice."

"What do you think I'm doing here?" he said pointedly, gesturing at his suit, which sat awkwardly on his massive frame. "We all have our ways of fighting for what we believe in."

"I promise that what we are doing is right, Hank," Raven said softly. "We can do it without you, but I want you with us."

Beast gazed at her for a long time, assessing her sincerity. Finally he nodded. "I'll listen. I make no promises, but I'll hear you out."

_8_

The flashing lights of police sirens lent color to the night. Erik stood in the shadows and watched as three men were hauled from a bank, two in normal handcuffs—humans—and the third wearing, in addition to handcuffs, a mutation inhibiting collar.

Even from this distance, he could see that Banshee looked disgruntled. It was the boy's own mistake for working with humans.

Raven shifted form, becoming a tall man wearing a black suit, tie, and sunglasses. She stalked onto the scene as if the whole block belonged to her, and when a police officer tried to delay her she flashed an FBI badge at him. Erik couldn't hear them from here, but he knew the gist of what they were saying. Raven was claiming the mutant as an FBI person of interest and the policeman, responding instinctively to the authority in her voice, let her pass.

She grabbed Banshee by the arm, shouted something at him for appearances, then spun him around to slam him chest first against a police car. She leaned in to whisper something in his ear, which Erik took as his cue. A simple mental twitch and the latch of Banshee's collar sprung open. After giving the boy one more shove for good measure, Raven strode away from the crime scene as confidently as she'd strolled in—"Not our man after all," he imagined her telling the cop—and joined Erik at his hidden vantage point.

Banshee's cuffed hands lifted to his neck and pried away the collar. He took a breath and directed a sharp burst of air into each handcuff lock, shattering it and freeing his wrists. Then he took a deep breath and blew at the gathered police officers, the force of the air sending them flying. Before they could recover, he turned and ran.

"He's in," Raven said, unnecessarily.

_9_

Erik and Raven sat about halfway up the stands in the circus tent.

"Really, Raven," Erik drawled, wrinkling his nose as the woman on the other side of him spilled a handful popcorn onto the sticky bleachers. "I know that the rest of the world considers mutants to be freakish, but must we do our recruiting from the circus?"

"Have a little faith," Raven said, annoyed. "I've never let you down before."

He might have said something more biting, but then the lights went out and the audience gasped as there was a strange sound—_BAMF_—and a blue man with a tail appeared mid-air in the center of the tent. Another _BAMF_ and he was in the stands, balancing on one hand on a narrow stair. Yet another _BAMF_ and he was overhead again, dangling by his tail from the rafters, his arms spread wide to invite applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the ring master boomed, "the Incredible Nightcrawler!"

"He'll do," Erik said, ignoring Raven's smug smirk.

_10_

Erik had never liked Emma Frost. She got into his head too easily, but unlike other telepaths he'd known she always seemed almost amused by what she found there. It didn't help that she was one of Shaw's projects, just as he had been, that a part of her could not help but love her creator, just as a part of him would always look at Shaw and think, _Father_.

He didn't like her because her scars were his scars.

For all that it was difficult to track her down to her quiet home in Seattle, though—she'd retired a year into his incarceration—she was the easiest to recruit by far. One look at him, one peek into his mind was all it took. She shook her head and went to pack.

His scars were her scars.

***

Having seen Emma safely on her way to Nevada, Erik and Raven visited the Space Needle late that evening. He'd always had a soft spot for tall metal structures. He took Raven's hand and used the metal sewn into the lining of his suit to float them both to the top. Together they sat on the sloping roof, watching the moon shine down on Puget Sound.

"We have ten," Erik said. "Do we need one more?" He preferred to keep his operation as small as possible, but as Raven had told him before they couldn't afford to cut corners on this one. He interpreted her silence. "You think we need one more." He pressed his palm to the roof, feeling the metal particles against his palm. His time in the plastic prison had left him even more attuned to the sensation of metal than he had been before. "We'll get one more." He glanced sidelong at her. "You have someone specific in mind?"

"You're not going to like it," she said.

_11_

"I don't like this," he muttered, tilting his fedora to cover his eyes as he watched the girl—no, she was Pyro's age, she was a young woman now—push her way through the subway car.

Her hands were quick and nimble. If he didn't know what to look for—and if he hadn't spent years working with Raven—he would have missed the way her bare hands dipped in and out of pockets, brushing against her victims' exposed wrists or arms just long enough to absorb whatever information she was looking for—ATM pin numbers, probably.

He hadn't seen her since the Statue of Liberty incident. She had changed more than he'd expected. There was a white streak in her brown hair—a souvenir from her time with him—and a hardness in her eyes that had not been there before. He did not regret much that he had done in his life, but he found that he regretted what he had done to her.

Still, she moved more confidently than he remembered, and didn't cringe away from people as if terrified of even the slightest contact. She'd learned not to let her gift control her. He wondered whether that, too, was a result of her encounter with him.

The train came to a stop at Christopher Street and he waited only long enough to make sure that she was disembarking before he pushed his way out through the other door. He tailed her as she took the stairs from the subway station onto the street, walking a few blocks before making a left into a dark alley.

He waited several seconds before following her in. It was only good instincts and years of training that alerted him to danger, and he just had time to bring his gloved hands up to protect his face when she leapt at him, her bare hands outstretched. One of her hands latched onto the sleeve of his jacket; he caught her other wrist in his own hand. Her grip on his forearm was painfully tight, but when he searched for metal on her body that he could use to fling her off, he found none.

Clever girl.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Rogue," he said, grunting as she clawed at his face. He held her off with difficulty. He could have used the alley's metal dumpster to restrain her, but as Raven had reminded him before he left for New York, he was trying to recruit the girl, not terrify or browbeat her into submission.

"I won't let you use me again!" she screamed, struggling against him, half-hysterical, half-determined.

She kicked him hard in the shin, making him curse, then tried to knee him in the groin. He managed to twist away at the last instant, taking the painful blow on his thigh.

They grappled for another few seconds before he realized how pointless this confrontation was. It was evident from what he'd seen on the train that she was learning to use her skin effectively. Why not let her see what she needed to see?

He loosened his grip on her wrist enough to let the tips of three of her fingers touch his face. The pull began instantly, the same breath-stealing pain, the feeling of a slow, creeping death he'd experienced the last time they'd touched.

She could kill him this way. If he'd miscalculated—if her fear or her rage were stronger than her rational mind—she could really kill him.

It was terrifying, the feeling of his strength leaving him in a rush. He fell to his knees, his lungs seizing, his veins trying to pull through his skin, his head swimming.

_I can't die like this_, he thought, his vision darkening. _Not now, not without seeing—_

And then she let go. He heaved a desperate gulp of air as he slumped against the alley wall, his heart slamming against his ribs.

"Shaw?" he heard her say, the sound of her voice seeming to come to him from very far away. "You're going after Shaw?"

He was surprised by how eager she sounded. She'd never met Sebastian Shaw—not that he knew of, at least. "How do you know Shaw?" he croaked, using the wall to push himself agonizingly to his feet, watching her cautiously.

She shuddered and the dumpster rattled along with her. "I see him in my nightmares," she whispered, tapping the side of her head with two fingers in a familiar gesture. She cleared her throat. "But why do you need me?"

His strength was returning, but so slowly. He felt like an old man. "If everything goes exactly to plan, we won't need you," he said, his voice strained. "However, if something should go wrong…" He looked from the still-trembling dumpster to her. "Sebastian Shaw has the ability to absorb and manipulate energy. Your gift functions differently, but there are distinct similarities." He cocked his head. "I would be very interested to see what happens should you two touch. You might just be his match."

She stared at him, hard, for a long time. Finally, she nodded. "I'll work with you," she said slowly. "If you touch me, I'll kill you."

He smiled faintly. "I would expect no less."

She used the power she'd stolen from him to fling the dumpster from one side of the alley to the other, just for the simple pleasure of it if her fierce grin was to be believed. Then she caught him before he could fall down again, and let him lean on her as they left the alley together.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own _X-Men_ or _Ocean's 11_.

Warning: Spoilers for all X-Men movies, including First Class.

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><p><em>Him<em>

Charles Xavier ran a comb through his hair, paused, leaned in very close to the mirror, frowned, and said, "I do believe I'm going bald."

Sebastian, standing beside him and also examining himself in the mirror, chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous. You're too young for that."

"No, look," Charles insisted, running a finger along the edge of his hairline. "I'm certain I had more hair two months ago."

Sebastian stepped behind him, close enough for Charles to feel his heat against his back, and pushed the fingers of both hands through Charles' hair from the back to front, until his palms were cradling Charles' head. "Any more hair," Sebastian murmured, "and you would look positively shaggy."

Charles sighed as Sebastian's strong fingers began to massage his skull, soothing away some of the tension that always built when he used his gift too much. "We're going to be late for the concert," he said, his eyes on the clock in the mirror.

"Fashionably late," Sebastian said. "I hardly think anyone will reprimand _me_."

"Hmm," Charles said.

Sebastian was correct, of course. He owned the casino where the concert was taking place, just as he owned the mutant who would be performing.

Sebastian dug his fingers into Charles' scalp one last time before pulling away. The older man walked around Charles to quickly wash and dry his hands as Charles gave his hair a few more swipes with the comb and decided he was done. They straightened at the same time and gave each other an appreciative look.

After all this time, Sebastian's abilities continued to amaze Charles. Even fifteen years after their first meeting—_Don't think of that, you mustn't think of that_— he looked just the same, a distinguished man in his early fifties with sharp eyes and a smile that lied. Charles, on the other hand, was forty-two and looked it, though Sebastian always assured him that he'd aged well. There were lines on his face, especially around his eyes, and he'd begun to notice stiffness in his body when he sat too long.

_With my luck, in ten years I'll be bald and living in a wheelchair._

"How do I look?" Sebastian said, already knowing the answer.

Charles stepped in close and straightened the other man's bowtie. "Perfect."

Sebastian, like Charles, was dressed to the nines in the most expensive tuxedo money could buy. The most striking part of his wardrobe was the elegant circlet on his head. It was his signature piece of jewelry, a gleaming band of metal highly suggestive of a crown whose primary purpose, which very few people in the world knew about, was to prevent telepaths from reading or otherwise touching his mind.

Fifteen years ago, Sebastian had worn a rather ridiculous helmet that served the same function. The circlet had appeared in its place three years ago and since then Charles had never seen him without it.

Sebastian gripped Charles by the back of the neck and gave him a peck on the lips. "As are you, my dear."

He turned and offered Charles his elbow. Arm in arm, they left their luxurious suite and went to see Celine Dion.

_Them_

Reclining on an armchair in one of Jean's spacious living rooms, Erik reflected that it was astonishing how much things could change in just five years.

He gathered from the way his partners in crime were acting that few of the reunions he'd orchestrated had been happy ones. He and Raven sat together at the head of the room, near a decorative fireplace. To their left, Jean had an entire couch to herself in front of the massive glass doors that led to the pool. She lounged on it as if she were a Victoria's Secret model, red lips curved in a secretive smile.

Cyclops and Wolverine stood together on the opposite side of the room, as far from Jean as they could get, and stared at her with an awful mixture of fury and longing. Rogue, her hands encased in white opera gloves that went up to her elbows, sat with her legs drawn up to her chest about five feet from the two men, who'd both been delighted to see her and who'd then proceeded to reprimand her loudly and at length for disappearing from contact, in response to which she'd closed herself off completely.

Emma, who had never been afraid of anyone but Sebastian Shaw, sat stiffly on the other side of Cyclops and Wolverine, staring at Jean the way a rabbit might look at a wolf.

Banshee leaned against the wall near Rogue, his eyes sliding to her facing repeatedly, a juvenile flush staining his cheeks. This was hardly the time for the boy to form a crush. Of all the mutants Erik had assembled, Banshee was the only one he doubted. The young man was highly competent when he could focus, but he'd had concentration problems before. He was the same age as Pyro and Rogue, twenty-two, but somehow he seemed much younger.

Pyro lounged on the floor opposite Raven and Erik, enjoying everyone else's discomfort. Perched on the back of the chair next to him was Nightcrawler, the lone member of their little band who had never worked with any of the others before. His blue shoulders were hunched with discomfort, his tail curled around his right bicep. Beast hovered near the door as if he wished he could go back to D.C. and forget that he'd ever agreed to help them.

Looking at the motley crew, Erik was not inspired with confidence.

Intellectually, he knew that nothing stayed the same for long, just as he knew that when he'd left the school five years ago his departure had hurt them all. And of course his attack on Rogue two years after that had been a death blow to the surrogate family they'd built, which he'd known at the time was likely to happen. He'd known, and yet, seeing now what he had wrought, he realized that he'd had no idea. Not really.

"Well?" Wolverine demanded, finally breaking the room's uncomfortable silence when it became clear that no one else would. "You dragged us all here, Magneto. What's the plan?"

Erik cleared his throat and stood, drawing every eye to him. "As you know," he said, his tone formal, "Sebastian Shaw is the most powerful mutant in the Western hemisphere and possibly in the world."

Jean cleared her throat.

He favored her with a wintry smile. "Of course, I speak not only of his mutant power, which our own Jean _may_be able to match, but also his financial and political influence, which is considerable. Shaw is the third richest man on the planet. He owns more than a quarter of the representatives of Congress and has the ability to intimidate countless more into submission."

"Surely you exaggerate," Beast objected. "I've seen no evidence of—"

"Senator Kelly used to have a standing appointment with Shaw twice a year," Raven interrupted. "Starting six years _before_he was elected to the Senate."

Beast blinked rapidly, then removed his glasses and used the fur on his forearm to clean them. "Oh," he said. "Oh my."

"Shaw has people in place on both sides of the mutant 'issue'," Erik went on. "We can only guess at his ultimate intentions, but I assure you that he is not interested in human/mutant equality. Nor is pure mutant supremacy his goal."

"Of course it isn't," Cyclops said snidely. "If it were, you'd be on his side."

Erik clenched his jaw. "There is no cause on Earth that could entice me to work with that man."

Wolverine opened his mouth to make what would undoubtedly a rude comment, but Rogue spoke first. "He's telling the truth," she said. She twined a strand of white hair around her gloved finger and frowned at Erik as if she could see into his head.

He was not surprised that she had decided to act as his judge and jury. He _was_surprised by how familiar it felt. With her gift, she knew him almost as well as—

_Mustn't think about that._

He nodded at Rogue, in acknowledgment rather than thanks, and continued. "Shaw likes to play at being a mutant rights activist, but what he truly cares about is his own power, nothing else."

"Nothing?" Jean said, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "What about—"

"_Nothing_," Erik said. He reached into his pocket and fingered the old coin he kept there, its grooves and smooth surface as familiar to him as the contours of his own hand. "Shaw is a sociopath. That is not an opinion, it's a fact. Emma can confirm it."

Most of the mutants expectantly looked at Emma, who shuddered. After a moment she tilted her head and said, "It's close enough to the truth. Actually, Erik, if I had to name someone else Shaw cared about, it would be you. You were always his greatest creation."

Fifteen years ago, Erik would have flinched at that barb. Today he met her challenging stare stoically and ignored Raven's concerned glance in his direction.

"We're getting off topic," he said after a pause. "The point is that Shaw is dangerous to everyone, humans and mutants alike. We have a duty to stop him, because we are the only ones who can."

"We're all here because we've already agreed to help," Wolverine growled. "Get on with it."

The aggressive mutant was standing with his legs shoulder width apart—a classic martial arts stance. Erik gave a flicker of thought and Wolverine's legs snapped together, knocking him off-balance. Cyclops, scowling, grabbed his arm to steady him, though Erik would not have let him topple. His point was to remind them of his ability, not rekindle old animosities. He held the mutant in his power an instant longer, then released his control.

Wolverine extended his claws. There was murder in his eyes. "Don't do that again."

"I will not," Erik agreed. "If you remain civil."

He took a moment to look each of his co-conspirators in the eye. Again, he did not like what he saw. Most of them were furious with him for things he'd done before his incarceration. That was fine; they were all here because they had accepted his leadership, grudgingly or not. What was not fine was their discomfort with one another.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, a gesture deliberately designed to make himself seem—for lack of a better word—more _human_. "We cannot afford infighting," he said softly. "Some of you do not like each other. Most of you have cause to be furious at me. We've all experienced countless betrayals and failures. Trust does not come easily to any of us."

There was a sharp metallic sound as Wolverine retracted his claws.

Erik paused a moment to let his words sink in, then went on. "I am not asking you to reconcile with each other. Nor am I asking you to forgive me for the wrongs I have done you. What I do ask—what I _demand_— is that you set aside all grudges for the next two months. If you can't do that—if there's a single person here you cannot find a way to work with—then say so now and you will be replaced. What we're here to do is more important than any of us, and I will not allow anyone to jeopardize the mission. The repercussions would be simply too devastating."

There was a long silence. The various mutants in the room studiously avoided looking at each other.

"This is the most interesting thing that's happened to me in months," Jean said at last. "Anyway, you can't do it without me. I'm in."

"To take down Shaw…" Emma murmured. She shook her head. "Anything."

Pyro grinned. "Nothing to worry about from me, boss."

"Same," Banshee said.

"I will not condone murder, so if that's on your agenda, tell me now and I'll go," Beast said. He took a deep breath. "Barring that, I gave Raven my word that I would assist you. I won't back out now." He raised an eyebrow at Erik.

"No murder," Erik agreed, and wondered if Jean, Emma, or Rogue would call him on the lie.

They didn't.

"Someone's got to keep an eye on you," Rogue said instead, plucking absently at one of her gloves and looking him in the eye. "I figure that'll be my job."

Erik smiled faintly. "Fair enough." He turned his gaze to Cyclops and Wolverine.

Wolverine stared back, defiantly, and took over a minute to consider his reply.

"I don't like you," he said finally. "I don't trust you. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let any of my people work with you without me lookin' after them." He clenched his fists as if to reassure himself of the sharpness of the claws beneath his skin. "If anyone's going to be the death of us, it ain't gonna be me."

It was more of a concession than Erik had thought he'd get from the man.

"The same goes for me," Cyclops said, trusting Wolverine's instincts.

There was another long pause, this one significantly more comfortable.

"I think, perhaps, you left some things out when you hired me, Magneto," Nightcrawler said, breaking the silence, his thick German accent making Erik think of Shaw. When the others looked at him, he shrank in on himself as if expecting one or all of them to attack without provocation.

Erik's smile revealed nothing of the powerful surge of exultation he felt. This would work. It _would_. "Not at all," he said calmly. "I told you that you would have opportunity to work with the finest group of mutants on the planet. It looks as though I was right."

_Him_

Charles clapped politely as Celine Dion's last note hung in the air long after she had finished singing. Sebastian and the rest of the crowd were more effusive, leaping to their feet and applauding vigorously. The audience projected its pleasure mentally as well, the feelings of awe and excitement washing across Charles' mind like a tidal wave. He couldn't read Sebastian's mind, of course, but he didn't have to. Sebastian's smug pleasure was evident from his smirk, from the gleam in his eyes.

After, they walked to one of the casino's VIP rooms for the reception. Thousand dollar bottles of wine were uncorked and poured, one after the other, one of those lavish displays of wealth for which Sebastian was famous. Everyone who was anyone in Nevada was present, as were numerous celebrities, businessmen, and politicians from up and down the West Coast.

Sebastian circled the room like a shark, shaking hands, making small talk, every now and then leaning in to whisper in someone's ear, making them blanch or flush with pleasure or frown thoughtfully.

Charles picked at hors d'oeuvres as delicately as he picked at the thoughts of those around him, tiny tendrils of his mind reaching in and plucking out loyalties, passions, their deepest, darkest secrets. He kept to Sebastian's side all evening, so close their elbows almost brushed together whenever one of them moved.

There was one moment, late in the evening, when Charles almost thought he felt…something…something odd, a burst of some emotion emanating from not too far away. It almost felt like…

_Mustn't think of that._

Anyway, when he tried to reach for the emotion, there was nothing there. He wondered whether he'd imagined it.

Finally Sebastian decided he'd done enough schmoozing. He took Charles' hand—Sebastian's skin was, as always, a good ten degrees warmer than the average person's—and nodded at one of the nearby servers, who obediently tapped a champagne flute with a knife until the room quieted and all eyes were on them.

"My friends," Sebastian said with a sharp smile that showed off his white, white teeth. "Thank you so very much for coming to this special night. Not only have we been privileged to witness the debut of a singing sensation—" he inclined his head toward Celine Dion, who frowned briefly at him before smiling politely at the enthusiastic applause that filled the room "—but you are all about to be witness to an event that is even nearer to my heart."

His grip tightened on Charles' hand, as if to keep him from pulling away. Or maybe this was just another sign of Sebastian's possessiveness.

"As you all know," Sebastian continued, "a year and a half ago, a very special man stole my heart." He looked at Charles with a gaze so intense it almost seemed as if he must be a telepath himself. "It is my greatest honor, my greatest joy, to be able to share this moment with you."

Still holding Charles' hand, Sebastian sank to one knee.

Without thinking, Charles reached out and froze every person in the room except Sebastian and himself. The sudden silence—there was no even the clink of glassware or the low rasp of a whisper—somehow made the room feel much larger, made Charles feel much smaller.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his throat dry. He tried to pull away from Sebastian's grip, but the other man was too strong.

"Charles," Sebastian said, irritation barely tingeing his voice. "You knew that this was coming."

"I'm not ready for this," Charles insisted. He gave up on trying to extract himself from Sebastian's grip and settled for leaning as far back as he could. "I just need a little more time."

Sebastian's eyebrows narrowed and his eyes went cold. "That wasn't our agreement, and you know it. I don't like it, Charles, when people try to back out of their deals with me. I don't like it at all." Then, in one of his alarmingly mercurial mood swings, his expression softened and he released Charles' hand, sitting back on his heel, giving Charles as much space as he could without standing. "That being said, I won't force you. You know that even I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. I would advise you to consider the consequences of your actions, however."

Charles swallowed. It was no idle threat. And Sebastian was right—Charles had known what he was getting himself in for when he'd agreed to this over a year ago.

Still. Still.

He couldn't help but think—

He had to force himself not to think—

He had no choice. That was what it came down to, in the end. As Sebastian said, the consequences would be devastating.

"I'm sorry for my reaction," Charles said slowly, his tongue feeling clumsy in his mouth. "I was just…surprised." Slowly, so slowly, he held out his hand. "Forgive me?"

Sebastian straightened his posture, then reached out and tenderly clasped Charles' hand, his eyes shining. "I understand. Of course. There's nothing to forgive."

Charles closed his eyes and unfroze their audience.

"Charles Xavier," Sebastian said, so smoothly the crowd would never realize they'd lost time, "will you marry me?"

Charles forced a smile. "Yes."

And as Sebastian slid a gleaming platinum band onto his finger, he told himself again and again that this was not a betrayal.


End file.
